Punishment
by Lunar1
Summary: After MAA the anti-dwarf/troll feeling in Ankh-Morpork seems to have evaporated somewhat. However, what would happen if a group determined to get rid of the ethnic minorities in AM arose? It's up to the Watch to sort it all out...
1. Chapter 1

The explosion rocked the city, and for several moments after, as the debris rained down into the streets, nothing could be heard except for the tinkling of broken glass, the thump of stone and the occasional scream. 

Commander Sam Vimes, the Duke of Ankh, nearly fell out of his bed as it vibrated across the floor. All the glass in the bedroom window shattered and a bookshelf collapsed and spilled several dragon breeding guides to the floor. In the nursery Sam Vimes Junior began to cry. 

It had been a pleasant day up to this point. Vimes had been enjoying his day off, and today his son had taken his first, hesitant steps. Vimes had been trying to teach him to walk now for weeks, not put off by the seemingly endless amount of know-it-all visitors who informed him the chances of the boy walking before his first birthday were slight. Little Sam was ten months and two weeks old, and today he had managed eight steps from his mother to his father's arms. After his son had been put to bed Vimes had even found the time to share a rare intimate moment with his wife. It could have been the perfect evening... but as always something /had/ to happen.

"I've heard of the earth moving, but this is ridiculous," said Vimes, swinging his legs out of bed and grabbing his dressing gown. 

"Mind that glass on the floor," said Lady Sybil, suppressing a laugh as she slipped her feet into her slippers. Vimes was already padding down the corridor to his son's room, counting the broken windows. 

Sam Vimes Junior, despite his crying, was unharmed and Vimes picked him up with a slight groan. He was getting so /big/ in such a short space of time... he remembered when he could cradle the boy in one arm...

Vimes stared out of what remained of the window, expecting to see the dust rising over the Alchemist's Guild. It wasn't, in fact he couldn't see a cloud of debris at all from this room.

He started out of the nursery and nearly bumped into Lady Sybil who was coming the other way. She held out her arms expectantly for their son. "Go on then," she said.

Vimes sighed as he handed the boy over. "I'll try and be back as quickly as I can," he said.

She nodded. "I know. It sounded big. If you don't go Carrot will only come knocking in a minute."

Vimes kissed her cheek in thanks, ran back to his dressing room and hurriedly put on his street uniform, before dashing out of the front door. The night-time streets were still full of shocked noise, and he had barely reached the end of his road before Carrot loomed in front of him, partially obscured by the spring mists.

"What's happening Captain?" he said, striding on down the road as Carrot fell into pace.

"It's an explosion, sir. A dwarf deli, in Sheer Street," said Carrot, curiously dead voiced. 

Vimes stopped. It was Saturday night, the busiest time for the all night Rat Pie shops, the time when the dwarf-food shops were at their most crowded; when the foundries kicked out and all the workers on the later shifts went to buy their Sunday rat-roast."How many dead?" he said.

"I don't know sir, it's impossible to say. There's just... rubble everywhere..."

Vimes broke into a run, the acrid smell of smoke assailing his lungs as he headed towards Sheer Street. 

The dust fell from the air like snow and by the time Vimes reached the scene of the devastation he was covered in it, it settled in his hair making him look ten years older, and coated his armour. 

Vimes stopped again as his eyes took in the carnage laid out before him. In his eventful lifetime he had seen many terrible things; blood, guts and gore, evil and death, these things no longer frightened him. But he staggered to a halt as he reached Sheer Street, mouth open in shock and horror. In over forty years he'd never seen anything like this...

There was rubble strewn all over the streets, but worse than the smashed stone an scorched timber was the... bits... 

They weren't particularly soot blackened body parts, they were just lying as if forgotten all over the place, and somehow that was worse than seeing gushing blood spilling onto the street. There were a few Watchmen dotted around all over the place and they headed over to Vimes as if acting on unspoken command. He stared blearily at them. There was Littlebottom, Ping, Lucker, Skulldrinker, Flint and Carrot.

"Come on," he said, managing to drag his eyes away from a hand, fingers curled as if they were gripping the cobbles, "Let's try and find some survivors..." He turned to Carrot. "Where's Sergeant Angua? We could use her nose.."

"Uh, she's on her way, sir," said Carrot, his face pale and drawn in the flickering light of the few fires still burning. 

Vimes nodded and headed over to a large pile of blackened timbers where Flint was trying to lift some of the rubble. He dragged some of the building remains across the street, arms screaming at the effort involved, sweat and smoke stinging his eyes.

There were some survivors, but they were few and far between. Angua arrived with Igor, she would sniff out the still-living to be dug out and carried to the doctor. It was painstakingly slow work, heart rendingly terrible and physically draining. In a brief lull Vimes pulled Cheery over to one side.

"What do you think, Corporal?" he said.

Cheery looked into the Commander's eyes, the only part of his face still human under a covering of soot, sweat and blood. "I don't claim to be an expert on this sort of thing sir, really I don't." Her voice was shaking, barely more than a whisper.

"Just give me your impressions," said Vimes, not unkindly.

"It was deliberate, sir. They planted two devices, I think. The idea was to get the walls to collapse inwards, I'd say. Like a domino effect."

Vimes shivered. Here the buildings in the street were crammed together, walls shared by three buildings at least. It was a very good way to kill a lot of people very quickly, as had been proved here.

He stood back, looking down at his hands. Less than twelve hours ago his young son had been walking towards his outstretched fingers, less than three hours ago his wife's hand had been intertwined with his own. Now they were covered in soot, blood (his own and other peoples) and other filth. It was so typical of his life! Whenever something good was finally happening for him, whenever his life was finally taking an upturn, something had to occur that reinforced his shameful belief in the fundamentally flawed nature of humanity. He had spent a /wonderful/ day enjoying the very best experiences life had to offer. And now someone, something, some /god/ probably, it was the kind of thing they went in for, was dishing out the payment of the worst kind for such a fantastic day.

  
  


Vimes walked slowly through his own house, following the sound of laughter, feeling like a stranger. He pushed open a door, his hand leaving a smutty print on the wood. 

Sybil was playing with Sam, they were both laughing as he played with his toy blocks. He knocked them over with a careless hand in a terrible parody of the disaster in Sheer Street. Sybil looked up and gasped in shock.

"Good gods, Sam!" She stood up and took in his terrible appearance. "What /happened/?"

Vimes couldn't think of anything to say, there was no way to translate the maelstrom of emotions taking hold of his throat. "Uh, I have to see the Patrician," he managed, "I, um, I might not be back for dinner. Just thought I ought to come and say good morning..."

"You should have a bath and a shave, Sam," said Sybil but he backed away.

"No time. I'll see you both later... Look after yourselves..." He hurried away.

  
  


The Patrician was not happy. Although Vimes had never lost his slight fear of the ruler of the city, it had, since his promotion, faded somewhat. It returned full measure now as he watched Lord Vetinari stride around the room. Vimes had never seen him angry before. Annoyed, certainly, but never angry. 

He was angry now. Vetinari had always claimed to put up with absolutely anything in Ankh-Morpork except that which threatened the city. Something was threatening it now, and Vimes was reminded of the hundreds of vengeful relatives he had met when delivering bad news to victim's families. The explosion in the city was stirring Vetinari in the same way lesser mortals were affected by news of their granny being mugged for a dollar.

"What happened, Commander?" he asked, still pacing.

Vimes swallowed his nervousness. "We're... not sure, sir," he said.

"It was a deliberately detonated explosion?"

"Our forensic experts think so, sir."

"There was no warning received?"

"Nosir."

The Patrician picked up a copy of the Times from his desk, a particularly sour look on his face. "Have you seen this morning's paper, Commander?"

"Nosir," replied Vimes, wondering what was coming next.

He took the paper from the man's outstretched hand. 'Devastation' screamed the headline, and Vimes squinted at the picture of the wreckage in Sheer Street. He read on, aloud.

"Scenes of carnage in Sheer Street.... tireless efforts of rescue workers.... group claims responsibility... the Reclaimers?" Vimes looked up into Vetinari's frowning face. "Who are the Reclaimers?"

"I was hoping, Commander, that you would be able to tell me."

"I've never heard of them sir," Vimes replied honestly as he read on a few more lines. "Whoever they are, they say that they are responsible for detonation of the explosives."

"This was pushed through the door last night," said Vetinari.

Vimes was handed another slip of paper, much handled and decidedly grubby. In smudged pencil the words could still be read:

  
  


THERE WILL BE MORE DEATHS TO COME UNLESS YOU CLOSE THE GATES TO THE LAWN ORNAMENTS. ORDER THE GATES SHUT TO THE DWARFS OR FACE THE CONSEQUENCES - THE RECLAIMERS

  
  


"The word on the street is that this was a troll attack," said Vetinari.

"You don't believe that, sir?" said Vimes.

"Of course not. This is not a form of troll warfare. And no troll wrote that note."

Vimes nodded, he had been thinking something similar himself. "Not unless he works in the Pork Futures warehouses," he said, more or less to himself.

The Patrician's frown deepened. "I cannot carry out that order," he said.

Vimes nodded again. "We'll find them, sir," he said, "If you'll excuse me, I'll be going."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Apologies if this is offensive to any readers. This is the inevitable result of me having to work for god-knows-how-many hours on the history of Northern Ireland for my history coursework. More will, of course, be forthcoming - Lunar.


	2. Chapter 2

Captain Carrot was on patrol with Sergeant Angua. Vimes had ordered all of his officers onto the streets. There was a feverish, excitable feel to the air that could almost be tasted. The Reclaimers, whoever they were, had certainly achieved /something/. The city was as tightly wound as a spring, all day minor riots had been breaking out and it was important (or so Commander Vimes said) for Watchmen to be seen on the streets.

"Afternoon, Mr Renard," said Carrot, raising his helmet to a short man who scurried distractedly past them. Angua sighed. It had been a long day and Carrot's cheeriness was beginning to grate. She longed to be off duty and out of all the armour. She glanced at her watch for the umpteenth time... Still only quarter past three.

Carrot and Angua weren't just idly patrolling however. Various informants had been called upon to supply information about the explosion and they were busy collecting that information. It was in depressing short supply. 

They proceeded gently across Sator Square, the shouting of the soap box speakers washing over them, an overtone of the deep thrum that was the heartbeat of the city, the noise made by a million people simply existing.

Angua held out a hand to stop Carrot as they walked past one such speaker. 

"... Come into the city, stealing our jobs and taking our houses! It's about time something was done about them!"

"Yeah!" shouted someone in the crowd.

Carrot took a step forward and Angua tapped him again and shook her head. "It's the best lead we've got... I'll follow him. You just keep the crowd under control..."

Carrot nodded. "Be careful," he warned.

Angua smiled wryly. "I will." She disappeared down an alleyway.

"I worked for thirteen years in a foundry!" the speaker was yelling, "These lawn ornaments turn up and take our jobs after ten minutes! I tell you, send them back to where they belong!" There was some more self-righteous muttering, but also people towards the back of the crowd shaking their heads and walking away. 

"It's the same with the trolls!" someone else started, and then found themself pulled up onto the box with the first speaker. "Them thicko rocks! Fighting in the streets and beating up decent people. Something ought to be done about it!"

There was more muttering, and Carrot felt enough as enough.

"Come along now, people, that's enough," he boomed cheerfully, attracting several dark looks, but mostly amused ones. "There's no need to be like that. Many of my colleagues are trolls, and of course, I myself am also a dwarf..."

There was some embarrassed grinning from the crowd. Angua didn't stay long enough to watch the rest of the show. As soon as Carrot had spoken the two speakers had melted away into the masses. She followed their trail, muzzle to the ground, growling slightly. They were both headed in the same direction. Strange that, as the second speaker had apparently been selected at random from the crowds... The human part of her grinned inwardly. Gotcha...

The trail doubled back and forth across the city, and at one point she almost lost it. Whoever she was trailing was good at avoiding pursuit by an enemy with a keen sense of smell. This only added to her burgeoning suspicions that the two speakers were not just misguided members of the public speaking their mind, but were involved in something more sinister.

She was somewhere in the Shades, the trail was nearly overpowered by the stench of the Ankh, when it came to an abrupt end at a low doorway. Her nose raced as her human mind made sense of the coloured smoke that seemed to billow in the air before her, detectable only with the olfactory senses. Yes, the two men had hesitated here, looked left and right before going into this building. 

Angua headed around the back of the building and found a door. She concentrated and Changed. She blinked and stood up a little uncertainly and self-consciously. She tried the door handle. It was unlocked. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. This was too easy.

A noise made her spin around. There were two men standing at the end of the alleyway, the same two men she had been following she realised. One of them was holding a crossbow.

She tried not to panic, that was always the problem. A panicky reaction meant her body reacted instinctively and reached for the wolf shape. She'd easily win, but she might hurt someone, and that always upset Carrot.

She tried a smile. It was generally all she needed. "Gentlemen..." she began.

"I wouldn't move if I was you," said the one with the crossbow.

Angua growled. It really had been a very trying day and she had been looking forward to an evening off with Carrot. They had tickets for a play and everything... The second man shifted uneasily and levelled his own bow, but the taller of the two remained calm. This was slightly unnerving, a growl from Angua could normally sap the morale of even the most persistent offender.

The points of the arrows weren't silver, and as such Angua wasn't in any immediate danger. She took a step forward. No one ever fired at a Watchman, it was known to be seriously bad news for the person holding the weapon afterwards, as well as anyone else he happened to know and might or might not be related to.

The man with the crossbow fired and the quarrel hit her in the shoulder, slamming her backwards into the wall of the alley. Blood dripped from her arm and she cried out in pain. With a grimace she moved to pull the arrow out of her body, and another one hit her in the stomach. She passed out in pain as blood pooled around her.

"Come on," said the taller man, "Let's get her out of here."

  
  


It was half-past five and Vimes was still no closer to solving the mystery of the identity of the Reclaimers. He had managed a wash, and even a bit of a shave and he ran his fingers distractedly through his greying hair. His notebook was full of notes he had scribbled during the day as various officers reported snippets of information to him. There was nothing of any real value, no names, no addresses...just his notes, lots of them, all as meaningless as each other.

There was a knock on his door, which Vimes recognised as Carrot's. "Come in, Captain," he said.

Carrot stepped inside, the room becoming a mere background to his huge figure. His honest face was decidedly pinker than normal and Vime pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a feeling that this wasn't going to be good news.

"Yes?" he said shortly.

"Sir, Angua's gone missing, sir. She was following some suspects and she hasn't come back. And this has just arrived at the main office."

Carrot passed Vimes the note. 

  
  


TICK TOCK, MISTER VIMES. TELL THE PATRICIAN TO ORDER THE DWARFS OUT OF THE CITY NOW, OR WE WILL STRIKE AGAIN - THE RECLAIMERS.

  
  


Vimes groaned. This day just went from bad to worse. "Are you sure she's missing Captain, not just... still investigating?"

"Old Harry says he saw her go into the Shades, and she hasn't come out. We were supposed to be going out somewhere tonight sir, I don't think she'd be late if she could help it."

Vimes massaged his head, trying to think through the fog that had invaded his brain. There was another knock at the door. "Come in," said Vimes wearily.

It was Littlebottom. She swallowed nervously, "I've been conducting some investigations in Sheer Street, sir. The explosives they used are very unusual... I've never seen anything like this before. I don't think they used a fuse to detonate the explosive. I think... well, sir I think it was a clockwork device."

"Clockwork?" said Vimes, confused.

"There's been some development in the industry recently sir, and there were several alchemists working on a project to develop a clockwork explosive. It was disbanded by the Patrician."

Sudden inspiration struck Vimes. "Cheery, get me a list of the names of those alchemists, will you. I want to know exactly where they are now and what they've been doing..."

Carrot looked up. "You think this might be revenge against Vetinari, sir?"

"It could be, captain. I'd be surprised if at least some of them wasn't involved." He sighed. "Put the word out for everyone to keep their eyes open for Angua, and send out a Clacks that she's to report back immediately." As Cheery saluted and shuffled out he added to Carrot, "I'm sure she's alright, Captain."

"Yes sir," said Carrot, but his face was still anxious.

"Come on, Captain. We need to go and show /this/ to Lord Vetinari."


	3. Chapter 3

Angua awoke in the darkness, the damp biting into her bones. Her shoulder and stomach were throbbing with pain and she could taste blood in her mouth. She groaned slightly. This was /not/ how things were supposed to go. She sat up and realised her arms and legs were shackled. She growled. She was tired, hurt and tied up. Now, if ever, was the time to Change. 

In wolf form it was easy to slip out of the shackles and she sniffed her way around her cell. It was a cellar, she guessed, roughly ten feet square. There were a few smells, the two men she had followed from Sator Square, sweat, beer. She padded over to a door, which was locked. There were no other ways in or out.

She sat on her haunches, trying to think how she could escape when the door opened. She leapt forward, growling horribly, and knocked the bow out of the man's hands before he had a chance to fire. 

"Very good, Miss Angua," said a voice from the shadows. She spun, drool dribbling from her jaws. A man was standing in the corner of the room beyond the cellar, his crossbow balanced on the table and a strange device in his hand. "The bolt is tipped silver, you will note," he said pleasantly, "And I advise you not to attack me or I may be inclined to set this device in motion." He waved the contraption.

Angua growled again but remained still. How the hell had she ended up in such a situation? 

"Good," said the man, "Thinking, I see. There are some clothes for you here, if you would like to change back into your usual form. I need you to communicate."

Angua remained utterly still. The man sighed.

"I had hoped not to have to resort to such petty measures... but you leave me no choice." He stood up and walked over to her, the crossbow still aimed directly at her. It was doubtful that she would be able to leap and disarm him in time before he pulled the trigger and killed her. She remained still.

He pressed the bolt against her skull and the silver against her skin seemed to freeze and burn her synchronously. She whined and Changed. The man smiled. "That's better." He threw her some clothes and she hurriedly put them on.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"I want lots of things," said the man, still maintaining a friendly grin, "You are going to help me obtain some of them. I need you to write me a letter to your beloved Captain."

"Who are you?" she asked.

"My name is unimportant. You can call me Renard." Behind her, the man she had floored stood up slowly and aimed his own crossbow at her.

The name seemed familiar, but Angua couldn't remember where she had heard it. "What do you want me to write?"

"All in good time, all in good time. Firstly I imagine you would like something to eat. Jarvis and Haines, the two men who bought you here, have doubtless neglected to give you, our guest, some food."

Angua began to wonder if the man with the bow was quite sane. She stood up carefully. "I'm fine, thank you."

"Ah? Well, down to business then. Here is a quill and some parchment. Please write the following..."

  
  


Vimes was on patrol. It was half past eleven in the evening and he'd been awake now for long over twenty four hours but he strode down the dark streets watching all the time for suspicious strangers or objects on every street corner.

He'd popped home to put Sam to be and apologised profusely to Sybil for the fact he would not be home again for another night. She was rather stoical about it all and he was thankful. He resolved, when all this was over, that he would make it up to her somehow. Take her to see and opera, or something else she enjoyed doing.

All of his officers were on patrol tonight, with orders to stop everyone and question them, even search them for explosives if they thought it necessary. There were more Watchman per square inch in Cable and Sheer than any other part of the city, and all dwarf citizens had been advised to stay indoors tonight. There were guards at the door of every foundry and ironsmiths and Vimes himself was patrolling the streets looking for anything out of the ordinary. He hoped to the gods it would be enough. Somehow, he doubted it. If his past experiences had taught him anything, it was that his enemies would always utilise his unconsidered Achilles heel to break him.

It started to rain. It dripped off his helmet and down his chin, soaking through the links in his armour and into his shirt. His feet splashed in the puddles forming on the cobbles. Somewhere a bell started to toll quarter to midnight. He sighed, hoping against hope...

... and then the world exploded.

  
  


Angua put down the quill with a scowl. "Good," said Renard. He smiled at her. "Now, your Commander has no doubt passed on our message to Lord Vetinari. Somehow I doubt he has taken our demands into consideration, so it is time to move on to phase two. Give me your hands."

Angua held her hands out reluctantly and they were cuffed together. 

"We're going to take a little walk. Come along now."

She was marched outside as the rain started to fall, pattering softly on the cobbles. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"You'll find out," twinkled Renard. "You need to see this, you need to understand. Do you know who I am?"

Angua shook her head. "Carrot knew you, didn't he?"

"Yes, I have spoken often to Captain Carrot. I used to be an alchemist. I was working in an explosives project that the Patrician shut down. Then I was contacted by Mister DeVant... he's head of the Reclaimers. Personally, I have nothing against dwarfs or trolls, but I do appreciate the money he's willing to pay me..."

The rain was really hammering down now, soaking through the cheap clothes she had been given. She squinted to see where they were. "Isn't this Quarry Lane?"

"Yes," Renard said.

Angua suddenly could see the future stretching out in front of her. Renard had said dwarfs and /trolls/. "This isn't just about the dwarfs, is it?" she asked.

"No. DeVant wants all of the lesser races out of Ankh-Morpork. But by threatening the dwarf community it means we are perfectly positioned to attack the trolls."

They were outside a troll bar, inside Angua could hear the cheering and shouting as one of the troll strippers put on her third jumper. Renard turned a dial on the device and threw it against a wall. "I'd walk away, if I was you," said Renard, poking her in the back with the bow. Angua walked, hearing in her mind's ear the ticking of the little device.

Three minutes later the world exploded.

  
  


It is, by all accounts, rather difficult to hurt a troll. One way to manage it is to stage an explosion a few inches away and then drop a couple of tons of rubble on their heads. Vimes stood on the corner, an expression of horror on his face. /Not again/ he thought. /Please, gods, not again./

More Watchmen were arriving from elsewhere in the city. Sergeant Detritus watched the dust falling, his eyes glowing red in the light of some small fires. "Come on!" he shouted, and some of the Watchmen jerked into life, helping once more to shift the rubble. Vimes simply stood, the shock being gradually replaced now, anger was bubbling up from its secret reservoir in his soul. He blinked and moved forward to help move some of the debris.

  
  


Vimes stared at the note. "Are you sure?"he asked.

"Absolutely sir," said Carrot.

  
  


YOU TOOK TOO LONG TO CONVINCE HIM, MISTER VIMES. ALL THE LESSER RACES MUST LEAVE ANKH-MORPORK OR MORE INNOCENT LIVES WILL BE LOST - THE RECLAIMERS.

The note was in Angua's handwriting. Vimes sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He hadn't found time to sleep yet and he wondered if he could still stand. "This goes from bad to worse Carrot," he said.

"I know sir. It must have been a trap.. I just don't understand why they wanted Angua..."

"Me neither Captain," Vimes stifled a yawn, "I have to report to Vetinari." He looked into Carrot's anxious face. "Don't worry, Captain," he said, "I'm sure we'll get her back. Angua knows how to handle herself." He hoped his scepticism didn't show on his face.

"I hope you're right sir," said Carrot.


	4. Chapter 4

Commander Vimes was sprawled over his desk, fast asleep. Corporal Littlebottom coughed politely. There was no response. After a few more moments he started to snore gently. She coughed louder.

Vimes opened one bleary eye. "Wuh?" he said.

"There's been another note, sir," she said, "And I have the list of alchemists working on the project."

Vimes pushed himself up to his elbows. "Let's have a look," he said, trying to focus on the note.  
  


HOW CLEVER ARE YOU, MR VIMES? I'LL TELL YOU WHERE, AND WHEN, AND WE'LL SEE IF YOU CAN OUTWIT US. YOUR CHOICE, SIR SAMUEL, WORK IT OUT AND YOU COULD SAVE THOSE INNOCENT LIVES YOU CARE SO MUCH ABOUT.

84 7 126 49 36/ 133 140 105 98 36/ 42 84 7 49 105 98 133/ 133 84 65 49 56 140 84 175/ 

28 65 133 56 36 28/ 65 98/ 140 56 36/ 91 65 28 28 84 36  
  


Vimes stared at it some more. He was never any good with number codes and this one looked fairly horrendous. "Littlebottom?" he said.

"Yes sir?"

"Have you read this?"

"Er, yes sir."

"Can you decipher it?"

"No sir... I could try.."

"No, I'll... figure it out." He stood up. "I think I'll go home and get a bite to eat... Need to get something inside me."

He traipsed out of the office and up the road to his home, still clutching the note. To his mild surprise Sybil opened the door rather than Wilkins, wearing a firm expression.

"You haven't slept for nearly two days, Sam, please tell me you've come home to get some /rest/."

"Actually, I came for some breakfast," he said, stepping inside.

"What's going on Sam? The papers are full of rumours, the city rocks with explosions, what's happening?"

"There's a terrorist group that wants the Patrician to turf out all the trolls and dwarfs in the city," Vimes said, "They're targeting different ethnic groups to try and bully the Patrician into ordering them away," he said, sitting down at the table. "How's Sam?"

"He's fine," she said, "It's you I'm worried about. You look ill..."

"I'm alright," he said, raising a hand, "Honestly."

*

The Patrician stared at the paper. "Have you cracked the code, Commander?" said the Patrician mildly.

"Nosir," said Vimes.

The Patrician smiled thinly. "It's an alphabetised code, based on the seven times table, Commander." He handed back the paper. 

"Ah," said Vimes.

"Doubtless you have much to do, Commander. Do not let me detain you."

"Yessir," Vimes said.

* 

Vimes sat with his notebook open in front of him, translating the code painstakingly. It was in Angua's handwriting again, at least they had some proof that she was still alive. His presentation watch chimed the hour. He'd translated three words:

LARGE STONE FLAGONS   
  


Whoever had written the note knew that Vimes and Vimes alone could crack the code that was the description of an area by the cobbles.  
  


LARGE STONE FLAGONS SLIGHTLY DISHED   
  


Vimes's mind was racing. Large stone flagons, slightly dished...  
  


LARGE STONE FLAGONS SLIGHTLY DISHED IN THE MIDDLE  
  


The Palace. The stones outside the Palace and in Sator Square. He leapt up from his desk and ran down the stairs with a clatter. "Come with me!" he yelled, spurring seven other Watchmen to full sprint from desk-bound start.

He ran as fast as he could down Broadway towards the Palace. The streets were thronged with people heading to the square as always, it was the premier retail outlet for the city, after all.. How the hell was he going to find an explosive device in this mess?

Perhaps he didn't have to. The sensible thing would be to evacuate th Square. When there were less people it would be a hell of a lot easier to search. He pulled a Constable who had followed in the general rush closer to him. "Your name's... Kingsley, isn't it?"

"Yessir!" said the young man. 

"Get them to close off the entrances to the Square, don't argue, just do it."

The young man nodded fervently and scuttled off. Vimes sighed. That sort of thing was happening more and more often these days... he wondered what he had done to cause the fearful obedience of his men... and women, dwarfs, trolls, undead, gnomes...

He cupped his hands. "Alright!" he shouted, "This is the Watch! I want you to evacuate the Square!"

A few people gave him an odd look and then carried on. This was Ankh-Morpork after all. Vimes growled and beckoned a few more of his officers towards him. One of them was Sergeant Detritus, carrying the Piecemaker.

There was a brief exchange between the Watchmen and then all but Detritus headed purposefully away towards the edges of the crowd, towards the barricades already being erected in the main entrances.

"Hey!" shouted Vimes again, and was once more ignored. He sighed. "Go on then, Detritus."

The troll wound up his bow quickly and aimed it at the sky. A few people noticed and nudged their friends, a few of the more sensible ones started to run- 

- the fragments of the arrows fired from the bow rose into the sky, and as always burst into flame. The fireball soared into the sky, and there came a short shower of charred wood and a few feathers from the unlucky pigeons caught in the blast. Every eye in the square swivelled towards Vimes, at the centre of a rapidly growing circle.

"Right!" he bellowed, "I want everyone out of here now! You've all got homes to go to! This is Watch action!"

There was a stream of people heading towards the exits and Vimes had to grab hold of Detritus in order to stay where he was. However, after the initial rush subsided there were still plenty of people left in the Square. Mostly they were stallholders, shopkeepers who were reluctant to leave their wears unattended.

"That means everyone!" shouted Vimes, striding over to the nearest one. "Forget the damn fruit!" he added as the man hastily tried to shove all of the apples piled neatly on his stall into a crate. 

"Sir! Your life could be in danger, please!" he heard Carrot say, a few feet away in the open Square.

"I'm not leaving my bloody merchandise here to be sto-" began a vendor and then the explosive detonated and Vimes was picked up and thrown flat by the force of the explosion. He hit the ground hard as debris rained down around him. He covered his face with his arms as the splinters and shards of glass fell to the ground. Something nicked his ear. Something else, a lot larger and heavier hit his arm and he gasped in pain as more material showered him.

When the larger items seemed to have stopped falling from the sky Vimes sat up and tried to peer through the smoke and dust. His arm hung at a strange angle, he was peppered with glass shards and splinters and he could barely breath in the smoke. However, he was alive and not too badly burnt, which was more than could be said for some of the people around him. 

He stood on shaking legs. Sheer luck had saved him, the explosion had occurred over the other side of the Square and the stall had protected him from the worst of the blast. Vimes staggered through the charred timbers and smashed wares. Where had Carrot gone? Blood dripped down his face and arm. 

There was some movement in a pile of blackened timbers and Vimes hurried over. Carrot was buried under stone, timber and smashed fruit, trying to push himself up to his elbows.

"Captain!" Vimes shouted, stumbling over the rubble. He tried to pull a broken spar off the captain, but this was difficult with a broken arm.

"Uh," Carrot managed. There was blood around his mouth and his face was a curious grey colour. 

Vimes tried to think through the blinding pain in his arm. The smoke seemed to have invaded his mind. He stood up again, and shouted through the yellow haze of dust and smoke. "Detritus!" 

There was no answer. No troll lumbered through the smoke to the captain's aid. It was up to Vimes...

He tore the sleeve off his shirt and tied it quickly in a makeshift sling to support his broken arm. He tried to move the spar again, but it was hopeless. He shifted some of the loose rubble and shouted again. "Detritus! For gods sakes, Detritus!"

*

Angua shivered in the cold of the cellar. They'd left her some food again, but she hadn't the stomach for it. It lay untouched on a plate, by the single candle that trembled, lost and alone in the cellar full of shadow. 

The explosion made even the cellar tremble and motes of dust fell from the ceiling. More death. She wondered where the target was this time, and how many people were dead.

There was a knock at the door, coinciding exactly with the sickening feeling deep inside her flaring up to take hold of her throat. It meant Carrot was hurt.

The door opened and Renard stepped in, crossbow aimed at her as always. 

She stood up."What have you done, you bastard?" she growled.

"Calm yourself," said Renard, "The time has come for you to leave us, I think."

"What are you on about?" she snarled.

"You are the bait in a trap, my dear. Your Captain is out of the way and now we have to deal with you Commander."

"What?" she snapped, although she knew already, the sinking feeling in her stomach had already told her.

"I said, with your captain out of the way, now all we have to deal with is your Commander."

"Deal with him?" she asked, truly bewildered.

Renard saw her confused expression and sighed. "Your Captain is a staunch supporter of the rights of the lesser races. And so is Commander Vimes."

"So what? You're going to kill him?"

"Oh no. We have a much better idea. Now give me you hands, Miss Angua."


	5. Chapter 5

Vimes opened his eyes and the various pain sensations hit him like a sledgehammer. He groaned. His face felt like his skin had shrunk two sizes too small, he couldn't move his right arm and miscellaneous parts of his body stung as sharply as if he had been jabbed by a wasp. His mind raced as he tried to recall how he had ended up here... wherever here was...

He sat up quickly, ignoring the fire in his back and pounding head, breathing quickly. He was home, the sheets of his own bed wrapped around him. His arm was bound in a sling, splinted, and various bandages were tied neatly around him. 

"Sybil?" he said, wincing as he swung his legs off the bed. He tottered a few steps into his bathroom. Hot water steamed in a jug on a washstand, meaning either Sybil or Wilkins had been through recently. He stared at the mirror. Surely that wasn't his reflection..?

His face looked like he'd spent a long day in the sun, which explained the tightness of his skin, and his eyebrows were singed. There were stitches in his ear, on his chin and his torso was covered in small cuts. There was a long scar down his left side, full of neat stitches, and the same on his left leg. His hands and shins were burnt like his face, as was any other part of his body that had been bare in the explosion. He rubbed his chin. He didn't feel like shaving his sore face just yet.

He looked at his left hand. The palm was covered in small scratches and bruises. How had /that/ happened?

The door opening coincided with memory returning. It was Sybil, carrying a cup of tea and wearing an expression of concern.

"What happened to Carrot?" he asked as she opened her mouth to speak.

She paused. "Um... Igor's doing all he can," she managed.

Vimes looked down at his hand and tried to blink away the memories of blood, shattered bone and the damn smoke, hanging in coils in the air, entering his brain to befuddle the senses, deadening the world until it faded to black.

"What happened?" he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose and wincing as he sat down gingerly on the bed.

"Detritus heard you shouting," Sybil explained, "You passed out just as he reached you."

"I have to get to the Yard,"he said, starting to move.

"You need to get some /rest/," Sybil said firmly, pushing him firmly onto the bed, "Doctor's orders. You've lost a lot of blood."

Vimes knew better than to argue and despite his misgivings nodded meekly. After all, if there was any more trouble a runner would soon be sent for him. He took the tea and drank it gratefully. "How's my boy?" he asked, with a weak smile.

Sybil returned the grin. "He's fine. He wants to see you."

"Really?" he said, and for a moment the lines on his face were smoothed away slightly as his expression softened.

"Really," she replied, "He's getting quite good on his feet now."

He heard her moving down the corridor to the nursery, and then her footsteps returned. She paused outside the door, and then the door was pushed open.

"Dada!" said little Sam, his arms outstretched as he tottered forward on uncertain feet, falling into his father's one good arm. Vimes lifted him up with difficulty onto his lap. "What have you been up to then?" he asked him, starting to smile.

Sam started to babble, but a sharp tap at the door made him inaudible. Vimes sighed, and it was echoed by his wife.

It turned out to be Corporal Littlebottom, breathless and red faced from the run to the Ramkin-Vimes Mansion from the Yard

"What is it?" Vimes said shortly, descending down the main stairs still buttoning his shirt.

"Sir, I think I've located Angua. Stoolie the gnoll says he saw one of the men on my list of alchemists going into a house in the Shades, close to where she was last seen."

Vimes grinned. Walk and talk, that was /always /how to solve /anything/. Getting Angua back would make this mystery so much easier to solve. With the sergeant back at the Yard a sense of normality might return, and perhaps Vimes could make the connections he needed to when his mind wasn't occupied with how to rescue his officer as well as preventing another disaster.

"Let's move then, Corporal. Get the search warrant and a couple of other officers for the look of things."

"You mean the sledgehammer sir?"she said and Vimes nodded.

"That's the one. Hop to it, I'll catch up in a minute..."

Cheery saluted and hurried off. Vimes turned to Lady Sybil. 

"I know, I know," Sybil said, "You have to go."

"I'm sorry," Vimes said, and she smiled thinly.

"Go on then. Do /try/ and hurry back, won't you?"

"I promise," he replied.

*

Angua stopped trying to pull her arms out of the manacles, it wasn't working and it was only cutting her wrists. She was so trussed up it was impossible to Change and she was angry. Carrot was out there, somewhere in the city, hurt badly. Commander Vimes was in terrible danger and she was stuck in a cellar, completely powerless. And she hated it. 

Angua was not the kind of person who enjoyed being powerless. She loathed it, hated it and that was why she was almost pulling her arms out of their sockets to get out of the manacles.

She screamed in anger, through her gag, and started pulling again. Even if she had to rub her wrists raw, she wasn't going to sit here and do nothing. She couldn't, wouldn't do /nothing/ any more. 

A noise outside made her stop. "MMMPH!" she yelled, trying to make as much noise as possible through her gag. "MMPPHHFF!"

*

Outside Detritus prepared to smash down the door of the cellar. Corporal Littlebottom watched the Commander uneasily. She couldn't quite describe the change in the man, but it was as if he had become... sharper, more defined, as if everything else in the world had become a background to a sharply outlined figure. The lines in his face seemed locked as if in stone, and she felt now that if anyone should touch him, he would burn like ice. 

Vimes was angry, almost blinded with rage. The Beast was out now and looking to kill. Carrot was hurt, maybe even mortally so. Angua was kidnaped, maybe she was dead as well, he didn't know, and instead of spending time at home with his wife and son he was here, in a grubby alleyway in the Shades.

He didn't wait for Detritus to smash down the door, he kicked it hard and it buckled, and it gave way under another brutal kick. He could hear something, just on the edge of earshot to his left. There was another door, which gave way under his boot.

Angua was tied up, her eyes livid above the gag, hair mussed with her face and arms bloody. He didn't wait for the others to catch up, he strode across the room and removed the gag.

Her breath came out in a gasp. "Mister Vimes, it's a trap, you've got to-"

"What?" he snapped, cutting her off.

"It's a trap, sir, they're going to... you've got- go home... They're in danger..."

Vimes was off, up and running as fast as he could. He didn't understand what was going to happen, but he didn't have to. All he knew was that Sybil and Sam were in mortal danger and he was running faster than he has ever run in his entire life, ignoring the pains in his chest, his knees and ankles.

He was almost in Scoone Avenue when the explosion occurred, and he skidded to a halt as the column of debris rose into the air and fell around him. He dropped to his knees, all the strength gone from his body. He couldn't even scream. His body just folded up and he hit the ground, the leaden horror flowing through his veins.


	6. Chapter 6

Angua raced though the streets, muzzle to the ground, a deep rumbling growl escaping her bared teeth occasionally. Commander Vimes had been running at some speed, even in lupine form she was having difficulty catching him.

The explosion knocked her off her feet and she rolled over the cobbles, whimpering. Inside, the unchangeable core of human thought whispered /oh no/, as the sickening feeling of guilt reared its ugly head. 

She regained her balance and set off running again, into the clouds of billowing smoke and dust. The air was so thick with it she almost passed the slumped figure of Commander Vimes without noticing him. He didn't seem to see her, either, so she carried on running, leaping over the debris that was all that was left of the Vimes-Ramkin Mansion.

*

There was a reason that Sybil and Sam survived the initial explosion of the mansion, and it was because Lady Sybil, against Vimes's express wishes, was in the dragon house with her son. Vimes was decidedly uneasy about letting his son in the dragon house until he was a little faster on his feet. What if there was an explosion? he had often plaintively argued.

Lady Sybil could see his point. But Sam was in his pram, actually inside one of the (empty) reenforced dragon sick pens, so if one of the dragons did explode he was perfectly safe. 

Lady Sybil was about to begin mucking out, when Sam threw his rattle out of the pram for the /third/ time. She sighed, picking it up and moving to put it back in the pram. 

"You," she said, "Are worse than your father." She touched his nose with her finger as she spoke, making him giggle. As she stood, smiling over her son, the explosion began.

The dragon house was built with very thick walls and lightweight roof for the precise reason that this was the best shape to survive an explosion with minimal harm to the occupants. However, it was designed to stand up to an explosion from the /inside/, and also one of much smaller destructive force.

Lady Sybil screamed and grabbed her son as the whole building shook. Either instinct or intellect told her to crouch in the corner of the sick-pen as the roof collapsed inwards. The blast ripped the house apart and the shockwaves struck the walls of the dragon house. A large piece of timber smashed into the pram, as the wall closest to the house collapsed inward. Lady Sybil closed her eyes as Sam screamed in terror.

There was a terrible moment of noise so loud that her entire body seemed to shake with the vibrations. Plaster, stone and splinters hit her head and back as she tried to shield Sam from the debris, eyes still firmly closed. After a few moments the noise ceased; Sam's screams became audible again, and, still not crushed by the wall she was certain had been falling towards them, she risked opening her eyes.

It was so dark and the air was so full of choking dust that it took her some time to establish what had happened. Miraculously the wall had stayed relatively whole during its trip to the ground, and now formed a particularly thick roof over the four walls of the pen. Sam was still shrieking with panic and she tried to shush him, attempting to ignore the horrible small noises of rubble rattling across the makeshift roof, as it settled into a new position.

*

Angua growled, a fierce rumble from deep within, both the human and the wolf part of her expressing its anguish. However good her nose was, it was damn near impossible to smell anything in this mess, with the dust falling from the air, and the rubble still shifting under her paws.

She strained her ears instead and yelped. Just on the edge of hearing, so quiet she couldn't be sure if she was only imagining it, or if it was simply coming from the city itself beyond the billowing clouds of sound deadening smoke and dust, there was the sound of a child crying.

She leapt from pile to pile of debris until she was certain. She sniffed around a large slab of what had once been a wall. Perhaps it was her imagination, but there was just the faintest scent....

It was enough. She bolted through the smoke back to where Commander Vimes was collapsed on the cobbles. Some of the other Watchmen had arrived, they stood a little behind their Commander, the same expression of horror on all of their faces. No one could bring themselves to say anything to the man slumped on the floor.

She barked, wishing Carrot was here, he /always/ understood exactly what she was saying as a wolf, had some uncanny ability to translate even her least expressive whines or growls (in a way strangely similar to Sonny and Skippy the Kangaroo!).

Detritus lumbered forward and followed her into the blanket of shadowy smoke. Stirred into action by their sergeants, a few more stumbled forward as well, using their sleeves to try and shield their eyes and lungs from the choking smog.

Vimes couldn't see them, he was far too deep inside his own head, at the bottom of his own, private well of despair. It wasn't until Constable Lucker accidentally brushed his shoulder that he realised they were moving into the smoke as if on unspoken order. In a dream, no, in a /nightmare/, he followed them.

*

Detritus was strong, and there were several people to shift the rubble from the top of the slab of wall that entombed Vimes's wife and child, but not even all of them together could lift it. They had tried shouting through the slab, and although there was some reply of sorts, not even Angua could understand it, it was so muted by the thick concrete (1).

Eventually Constable Dorfl was summoned, and together with Detritus he managed to lift the slab a few inches. The assembled Watchman hurriedly gathered together props from the material and wedged the slab upright.

Vimes watched all this from a few feet away. He couldn't move any closer, couldn't bring himself to get near enough to hear conformation of the death of his family. He simply stood, head full of memories, eyes full of tears he couldn't let fall to the ground, not until they retrieved the bodies at least...

He buried his face in his hands, unable to even watch anymore.

Lady Sybil, choking with the dust, blinked as the light penetrated the darkness of her tomb. Sam started to cry again and she crawled over towards the light with him still cradled in one arm. "H-Hello?" she coughed.

There was an eruption of joyous shouting from outside, and then Constable Ping's worried face, pale despite his oriental skin-tone, filled the gap. "Are you hurt?" he said.

"I'll be fine. Can you make the gap any larger? Just get Sam out..."

Vimes heard his wife's voice, and his son's cries and looked up. He saw the slab, raised, Ping crouched by the gap, and he leapt to his feet, tearing off the sling to give him two arms to use rather than one.

"Sybil!" he shouted, voice thick with emotion.

Ping, very respectfully, moved away from the gap and Vimes knelt down by the slab. "Sam!" she replied, very relieved, "Can you make the gap any wider? I'll pass you Sam."

Vimes nodded, and stood again. The assembled watchmen made no comment on his pale face, streaked with tears. Vimes didn't need to ask if they could manage to lift the slab, he didn't even need to order them to. Detritus, Dorfl, Vimes, Lucker and Ping all braced themselves against the stone. "Three, two one... ungh!" Vimes shouted, pushing with all his might against the block. It shifted a few more inches as his arm screamed in intense pain.

Angua leapt down into the gap and, very gently, took the boy in her jaws. Sam Vimes took his son in his arms, wincing at the pain. He was very red in the face from the crying, and covered in dust and dirt. There was a scratch on his cheek, but apart from that he seemed fine. Corporal Littlebottom tapped his arm.

"I'll take him out of all this smoke, sir, if you like."

Vimes nodded, despite the fact that he never wanted to let his son go ever, /ever/ again, and reluctantly handed him over. 

"I'll be back soon, sir," she said.

Vimes nodded, and knelt down by the hole again. "He's safe, Sybil," he whispered.

"Good," she replied. She met his eyes, and he saw the pleading there. "Can you get me out?" she murmured.

"Yes," he answered and she smiled slightly, seeing the honesty. "I don't know exactly how, but I /will/."

"Good," she repeated.

He stood up again. "Can you lift the slab /again/?"

"Sir, someone's been sent to fetch a golem from the slaughterhouse. And Constable Flint's on his way, with Bluejohn..."

"Okay," Vimes said.

Flint and Bluejohn arrived first, and with the three trolls it was easy work to lift the slab. Sybil scrambled out of the pen into Vimes's arms. Normally incredibly self-conscious when it came to marital relations in public, he hugged his wife fiercely, unashamedly. The hard wood of his splint dug into her back but she said nothing, simply embracing him in return. 

"I thought... I thought..." he tried to say.

"I know, I know," she said, tears running down her cheeks, leaving tracks in the grime.

"Come on, you're hurt, let's get you out of here..."

"Where are we going to go?" she mumbled, still sobbing into his shoulder.

"It doesn't matter! Just, please, come away from here. Before something else collapses..."

He helped her to her feet and lead her away. She was limping slightly, and there was blood seeping through her clothes. Vimes helped her back to the Yard, to Igor's ministrations and their son. 

1. Um, not sure if they have concrete in Ankh-Morpork but there is /no way/ brickwork could survive such an explosion and then falling over, so it's either concrete or a really huge lump of stone, take your pick!


	7. Chapter 7

Sam Vimes sat down gingerly on the uncomfortably over-stuffed armchair, wincing slightly as he knocked his now re-splinted arm. The sound of the rain pattering on the cabbage fields outside was clearly audible through the walls of the small cottage. Opposite him Sybil was knitting something, occasionally rocking Sam's cradle with her foot. 

It had been almost two weeks now since Vimes had found himself with no home, no leads and no desire to stay in Ankh-Morpork. There were Ramkin small-holdings scattered all over the Sto Plains, Vimes had never even considered them until now. This small cottage was cosy, although the new furnishings were uncomfortable. But it wasn't /home/, not for any of them. Sam couldn't sleep through the night, and Sybil suffered from terrible nightmares, and Vimes....

.... Vimes was beginning to regret coming here. He went to collect the Clacks everyday from the nearest tower to keep up with the news in Ankh-Morpork, to hear what information Carrot had on the perpetrators of the acts of terrorism. There wasn't much of it. Vimes itched to be back in the city, to find the people who had done this to his family and make them pay...

But he couldn't, he wouldn't risk their safety, and instead he sat in the horrible armchair every night, listening to the patter of rain on the cabbages, and worrying about whether he was far enough away from Ankh-Morpork and safely hidden.

He dozed in his armchair, lulled by the whisper of the water. 

*

Renard sat shivering on the back of the cart, soaked to the skin. The rain dripped off his nose, mingling with the blood from his nose. He tried to squint through the silvery curtain of the bad weather with his one good eye. DeVant had not been happy with his failure to kill the Vimes family, and had sent some of his other operatives to remind him of this fact. Now he was headed out of the city to finish the job.

He jumped off the back of the cart and ran across the fields, feet slipping in the mud, occasionally sinking up to his knees in the mucky water of the irrigation ditches, eye fixed on the patch of light miles away in the middle of the rolling fields, his hand gripping his clockwork device tightly.

*

Vimes opened one eye as all the hairs in the back of his neck suddenly stood on end. He sat up and Sybil glanced up at him, stirred by his movement. 

"Is something the matter?" she asked.

Vimes listened. There was no sound except for the rain that could be distinguished. All the hairs on the insides of his arms started to prickle. "I don't know," he answered, although he did, "Take Sam and hide in the cellar. I'll go and look outside."

He pushed open the front door and slipped out into the foul weather. It sounded peaceful in the warmth and light, but out here the ferocity of the weather suddenly became known. He was soaked to the skin in a matter of seconds.

A noise made him spin around, to see nothing but shadows and showers. He crept around the edge of the building, keeping his back to the wall. There were not footprints in the soft earth and he wondered if it was paranoia, maybe there really was nothing out here.

Another small noise made him turn again, and this time there was a figure standing there. Vimes rushed for him, knocking aside the knife the raised and forcing him against the wall. For once the hated splint worked as an advantage; he pressed the hard wood against the man's throat, effectively pinning him with Vimes's own forearm.

"Who are you?" he shouted over the noise of the rain. 

"My name's Renard," choked the man, through bruised lips.

Vimes didn't remember what happened next very clearly. He was simply aware of his fist, unstoppable as a planet, hitting the man again and again as the fury washed over the levees of his mind. This /animal/ had nearly killed Sybil, had kept Angua locked in a cellar somewhere. He had killed all those innocent people....

The clockwork device skittered away in the mud as Vimes punched and kicked. He wasn't aware that his hands were no longer slippery with water but with blood too, he wasn't aware of the man screaming for mercy as he thumped him, he wasn't aware of anything much until someone calling his name behind him jerked him back into reality.

"Sam?"

It was Sybil, holding Vimes crossbow, the point wavered uncertainly.

The rage drained, the beast was shackled once more and Vimes looked at the alchemist for the first time. The man moaned and Vimes's attention was caught by his hands. They were covered in blood, even now being washed away by the rain.

"He was going to kill us," Vimes felt he had to explain.

"What are you going to do with him?" she asked.

Vimes's instinctive reaction would have been to take his crossbow, there and then, and end the madness all now. But he couldn't do that, he wouldn't be Commander Vimes anymore if he did that. The wheels of justice must turn to crush Mr. Renard, he knew that much. So instead he picked up the clockwork device from where it had splattered in the mud and waved it in front of the man's severely battered face.

"Is this safe?"

"I didn't set it," Renard murmured.

Vimes pulled him onto his feet, wrenching his arms behind his back before frog marching him into the cottage.

"Good gods, Sam," said Sybil when they got him into the light.

Vimes looked at Renard's face, bloodied and bruised. "I didn't do all of that," he said.

"What are you going to do now?" Sybil asked, still pointing the crossbow at the ex-alchemist.

Vimes tore a strip off his shirt and bound the man's hands, and then his feet. He pulled open the cellar trapdoor, dragged the near-unconscious Renard over to it and pushed him inside. The man sprawled on the floor as Vimes slammed the trapdoor shut. "A taste of his own medicine," Vimes said grimly. "He locked Angua up in a cellar with no light, let's see how he likes it."

Sybil knew better than to disagree. She put down the crossbow and picked up Sam. "Are we safe now?"

"I think so. I'll keep an eye out. What time is it?"

She glanced at the clock. "Half past eleven Sam."

"I'll stand watch then. It's not like I don't have the experience." He glanced down at his bloodied hands, and filthy clothes from his fight in the mud. "But first, I need a wash."

*

It was half past five in the morning. Vimes sat glued to his armchair, exhausted but still not daring to fall asleep, just in case. He could hear movement from the cellar. Renard had awoken. Perhaps it was time to talk to him...

Vimes opened the trapdoor with care. Renard was still bound and Vimes dragged him to his feet and pushed him roughly against the cellar wall, his face a few inches from the man's own.

"Who sent you?" he asked. 

Renard said nothing and Vimes shook him a little back and forth. 

"DeVant," he said eventually, wincing as if the shaking had aggravated a headache. 

"Who the hell's DeVant?" growled Vimes.

"I don't know. I just work for him! I've never met him. He just sends me instructions and money. Now, can you hand me over to the Watch? Please, I won't make a fuss... just... don't leave me in this cellar."


End file.
